Free Once Upon A Highland Christmas by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Page B

ken his mind,” he vowed, lifting his own ale for a long, slow sip. “I spend enough hours being miserable myself when my Moira must leave my side, even briefly. She’s the air I breathe, that woman.
    “I need her aye in sight, better yet in my arms.” He set down his tankard and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “I could live a thousand years and ne’er have enough of her. And I’m proud to say it.
    “You, lad”—he fixed Grim with a piercing gaze—“are blessed to have your lady now, the whole of your lives stretching before you.”
    “That I know.” Grim spoke true, his respect for the older man demanding honesty.
    His honor required it, too. Never before had he claimed to be something he wasn’t and he found doing so didn’t sit well with him at all.
    Indeed, it bothered him so greatly that his other
annoyance
began to lessen, the fierce throbbing dampened by his distaste for deception. He did desire Breena, so much that he could scarce keep himself from leaping up from the table, crossing the room in two great strides, and pulling her into his arms, now and for all time coming.
    Instead, he took another long sip of ale and prayed to the gods for guidance.
    Surely they’d speak to him at Yule.
    Wasn’t this a time of miracles? Days and nights when magic was said to happen?
    Hoping it was so, he drew a deep breath, willing in his heart that Breena would want him as much as he wanted her. He prayed for a wonder, angling his head to listen, wishing for a sign.
    He peered hard at the golden flames of Flora’s fine beeswax candles, even the glistening holly berries, hoping for divine inspiration.
    But the only voice he heard was Fergus’s. He’d missed his host’s words, catching only the deep rumble of the older man’s query.
    “Sorry, Fergus, I didnae hear you.” Grim set down his tankard and turned his full attention on the farmer, not wanting to add rudeness to his fast-growing list of sins. “What did you say?”
    “Och, I asked only how you met Lady Breena.” Fergus glanced at the women, his interested gaze lighting on Breena before he looked back to Grim. “She’s Irish, so I wondered.”
    “Aye, she is, from Inishowen in Donegal.” Grim was glad to speak true. “Her village was raided and ransacked, burnt to the ground. The brigands stole her away, taking her with them across the sea to Scotland. When they attacked Archie’s Duncreag, she was still their captive. You already ken how my liege lord, Kendrew Mackintosh, and his Nought men rode to help Archie fight off the raiders.
    “When Duncreag was restored to Archie, Breena remained in his household.” Grim tamped down the rage that always rose in him when he remembered what Breena had been through. “She had no one to return to in Ireland. Her family and even her home were no more.”
    Grim paused, his own words tasting like ash on his tongue. He couldn’t shake the ill ease that always ripped through him whenever he thought of her home, the possibility she might someday return there. He knew she missed Ireland sorely. What if that ache was greater than any feelings she might have for him?
    Not wanting to allow such a possibility, he glanced at the window. Through the slant of the shutter latches, he could see snow was falling. Moonlight illuminated the yard and one of Fergus’s hounds was just rounding the well, the dog’s breath frosting the air.
    Grim turned back to the table, hoped the other men wouldn’t sense his frustration. “Breena is a fine woman,” he said, knowing he’d never spoken truer words.
    “And now she’s yours.” Malcolm nodded. His tone was sympathetic. “The gods work in mysterious ways. Have you been betrothed long?”
    Something inside Grim twisted sharply, paining him more severely than any battle wound he’d ever suffered. He took a long breath, braced himself for another lie.
    It wouldn’t come.
    The untruth lodged in his throat, sitting fast as if the gods had clamped an